Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [311]
And struggling to his feet, de Seurre moved back beside Jerott Blyth, back with the recoiling crowd, M. d’Oisel and the pick of his French troops forming a restraining cordon at its head, until within the altar rails, on the steps, on the fine Turkey carpet before the steps, there was no one but the two men facing one another from a space of a few yards, steel in hand.
And more than a hundred feet above their heads, above the choir roof vaulting, above the thronged, yellow-lit thread of the High Street, among the crowded Doric gables, sending its message of mourning round Edinburgh’s small hills and out into the dark spaces where the river Forth rolled, the Moaning Bell started to toll.
His massive, golden head flung back, his broad shoulders braced under their black cloak lightly laced over his white shirt, his sword firm and light in his hand, Graham Malett, Knight Grand Cross of the Order of St John, Sigad id Din of Dragut’s prophecy, looked across at his fated opponent, met that expressionless blue gaze above Lymond’s sword, balanced between his two hands, and smiled. ‘Sweet, hot-blooded creature,’ he said. ‘I had no idea you had a brain. You should have joined me. I would have made you a little prince.’
He sighed, his clear blue eyes tender. ‘And now I must find another.’ He moved his hand and the point of his blade, searing in the banked candlelight, described a gentle, impatient pattern in the still air. ‘Come, my flower. No one will interfere. You have not yet quite proved your innocence and I have not yet quite proved my guilt but I cannot afford—you are right, surprisingly right—to be detained while they find out how just are your guesses. Ah, sir, you meddle!’
It was addressed to the Deacon, his old face white, his courage gripped hard under the cloth of gold, who ignoring d’Oisel’s exclamation, ran forward between the two fair-headed men and laid a hand on Gabriel’s arm. ‘This is a House of God, sir! And you with the Cross on your breast draw naked steel before Our Lord’s altar! Put up! And you also!’
Lymond’s gaze did not leave Graham Malett’s. ‘Willingly,’ he said. ‘If the Knight Grand Cross will do the same.’
‘Willingly,’ repeated Gabriel at once. He made only a little movement, but the tip of his sword, entering the old man’s shoulder, drove home with a speed that sent the deacon reeling back into d’Oisel’s arms, his sparkling vestment running with blood. Stepping back, all his bright blade dulled, Gabriel turned again, smiling, to Francis Crawford.
‘It is sheathed,’ he said. ‘As I was saying, no one will interfere. And only one man besides myself requires his freedom and has no objection to killing you first … Randy!’
Then they all saw the movement behind the octagonal pillar to the left of the altar. They all watched, helpless, as, dodging out of the shadows, sword drawn, Randy Bell, physician and Will Scott’s assassin, drove straight for Lymond’s unwitting back.
But because of Gabriel’s shout, as Gabriel was fully aware, Lymond had a little forewarning: just enough to meet Bell sword to sword, as he backed up the steps, his eyes flickering from Malett on the one side to Bell on the other.
Bell was afraid. Catching the glint of his eye as he thrust at Lymond, dodged and thrust again, Jerott remembered where he had seen that look before. It was on the face of Joleta, in the streaming dark courtyard of St Mary’s, when she read Gabriel’s intention in his eyes.
But Randy Bell had no alternative. If he stayed, he would hang. And in supporting Gabriel lay his only chance of escape. Only Gabriel, playing his own amusing game, closing in a little, forcing Lymond, now fully engaged with Bell’s blade, to watch his own sword; from time to time thrusting with intention so that Lymond had to guard himself, breathing quickly, on two sides at once, knew what outcome he planned. For Lymond was Randy Bell’s master with the sword and Bell, looking